Belly up to the Baton

You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I can twirl a mean baton. An essential skill in the ‘burbs in the late seventies, baton was one of five daily classes–with tap, modern, ballet, and jazz. I only just discovered that this wasn’t early onset over-scheduling. Turns out it was just so my mother could belly dance.

While I was occupied after school every day, she and her buddy Marje could get a little time off. Time to plan their next adventure at Jack LaLanne’s studio or just sign up for evening belly dance classes. I can remember her sewing some outfits for them to wear. This one pictured ended up in my costume box and a plenty more kids have shimmied in it since then. The skirts were huge and I loved to twirl in them. This photo is from a Halloween party – my parents threw quite a few of these but I do not recognize the wallpaper.

Since my mother’s birthday rolled around again today, I looked into the photo box and heard the jingling of coin belts and anklets. I can still smell the perfume that meant she was going out. A cloud of Chanel with a vinyl green overcoat wrapped over her sparkling skirts. The promise of a tv dinner with pirate tater tots and burnt chocolate pudding.

Of course I had to ask Marje about the classes when I visited New Zealand last year. (This photo is from our stint as strawberry tarts in tap shoes.) Her daughter Helen had even saved a box containing shoes and a silver tiara from the Christchurch earthquakes. Marje wouldn’t spill exactly what they got up to while we were twirling, but I hope it was a little debauched.

Happy birthday, mom. Provided things go well, this is the year I will outlive you. Maybe I should take a belly dancing class just in case.